


Gauze

by Zaikyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Broken!Sam, M/M, Mental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaikyo/pseuds/Zaikyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is numb. But all the twisted things make it okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gauze

**Author's Note:**

> Unaplogetically disturbed.

Lucifer trails across the open scars of Sam’s arm with a curious finger, placing soft kisses against every coloring bruise and blister as he does. The Devil’s lips are always somehow the coldest part of him, leaving quiet chills and ripples through Sam’s skin everywhere they make contact. They used to make Sam writhe and tremble under their soft presses. But not much these days. These days, Sam hardly moves at all.

 

Sam feels hollow. He feels open and exposed and raw. But especially hollow. Like a million hands have been inside him, scraping and carving out every bit of him they could reach, and leaving nothing behind. He feels as if his soul is gone; chained to a comet, as some man had put it once. Yes, that describes it rather well. Chained. Bound.

_Owned._

And he is owned. By the very darkest thing he would pray away on quiet nights as a child. By the stalking shadow that by now, Sam guesses he sort of always knew was there, breathing over his shoulder and whispering the softest words into his ear. Words of rebellion and difference and change. Revolution and fear; anger and belligerence. Never quite letting Sam forget his role, never allowing him to abandon who he was. A freak; one who could only belong in the outstretched, waiting arms of another freak. The biggest freak of them all, really. And somewhere along the line, Sam _had_ fallen into those arms. Though he knew he never should have. But that didn’t change much at all.

And Lucifer says he’s beautiful. Says he’s a work of art that no one else could ever hope to understand, could ever hope to have. A fragile piece of perfection made from Lucifer’s hands. The same hands Sam had found stained in crimson and violence, but Lucifer’s hands none the less. He says so, as his fingers trace the barely healing scars across Sam’s arms and chest. And Sam _really_ is perfection. He always says so, when Sam feels he needs to hear it the most. When Sam feels violated and worn like he never knew possible.

 

Days like this, they’re disturbingly the same. Lucifer likes to stretch Sam, open him wide and fuck out every bit of hope he might’ve held once. He likes to leave Sam broken and torn and dead in his thoughts, wishing he were dead all over. But then he takes Sam, always takes Sam in his hands and praises him. Tells him what a perfect thing he is as he maps out all those crooked scars across Sam’s skin. All those scars― Lucifer makes them. With his teeth and nails and whatever tool that suits his artistic desires that particular day. Today it was the jagged end of a rusting hunter’s knife. Yesterday, a needle.

“You look prettiest in red,” he says to Sam in a whisper, heavy with something like sheer admiration and pride. Like he made Sam.

“So beautiful. But beauty’s only skin deep, you know. What’s truly beautiful is what lies beneath the surface.” A finger pushes between parted flesh, deep into one of Sam’s cuts, and glides along the wet tissue of a muscle smoothly, lovingly. “You’re so beautiful on the inside, Sam. So fucking perfect and used.”

And lying there, bathed in blood and filth and shame, Sam knows he’s used too. Knows he’s a perfect shell of something he once was, but is no more. A freakish thing that’s never belonged to anyone else but Lucifer.

A doll wrapped in gauze.

There’s a breeze in the room, a shift in the air that crawls its way up Sam’s spine as the Devil’s tongue brushes tenderly against his inner thigh and Sam knows this moment. Knows where it goes and wonders the same thing he’s always wondered. Why it had to be him, and why it had to be Lucifer.

Why everything is so wrong. Messed up and fucked up and wrong. Sam knows it is, but just doesn’t know why.

And like always, the Devil sees inside Sam’s head. Knows what he’s thinking and answers his unending question out loud.

 

“Because you’re special, Sam. You’ve always been special. My special thing. My broken perfection.”

And Sam knows he’s right. Because he doesn’t have anything else to believe in anymore. Nothing but Lucifer.


End file.
